


in, and out

by FallingStories



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst on the Stan O'War, Gen, Nightmares, Old Men are Sad, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingStories/pseuds/FallingStories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty years is a long time for old arguments to fester and grow bitter, and thirty years is a long time for old ghosts to haunt your sleep. Stan and Ford are living the dream on their boat, seeking adventure on the high seas. Living the dream, yes; but dreams don’t come without nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in, and out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nevanna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevanna/gifts).



> This work can also be read [here](http://convictioncas.tumblr.com/post/149866576002/in-and-out)

The Stan O’ War rises, then falls again in a slow rhythm, like your breath when you sleep, steady and predictable.

Stanley leans against the railing, inhaling the salt air. The sun is warming even the deep creases around his eyes, and he’s several degrees tanner than he was six weeks ago. Turns out you can even tan in the Arctic Circle, if you’re committed. And don’t mind the freezing cold.

Stan is liking the Bahamas a lot more than Greenland.

They’re en route to the Bermuda Triangle, which despite Stan’s off-color jokes is _not_ connected with Bill Cipher in any way, according to Ford. Who, speak of the devil, is currently sketching something in his already beat-up new journal. It has a drawing of himself and Stan pasted to the cover, hand-drawn by Mabel and liberally treated with glitter.

Ford glances up from his nerd-book and smiles, but the look doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “Stanley. Tea?” He gestures to a kettle lying on the table on deck.

The Stan O’War continues to bob, and Stan rolls his eyes. “Really, Ford? You think I want your disgusting leaf water? Do you know me at _all?”_

Ford almost looks hurt. For Pete’s sake. He was _joking._ Mostly. “It’s good for you.” Shit, and here comes the pointed glare usually reserved for when Stan has two bowls of ice cream right before bed. Ford’s been trying to get Stan to eat salads and lay off the sugar. Fuck him, he can stop enjoying sugar when he’s dead.

It’s gotten harder to say that without thinking about how close that came. He doesn’t want to admit he seriously believed his last taste of sugar would be expired Smile Dip smuggled into the basement of the Mystery Shack and poured dry down his throat as the world ended around him.

“Whatever happened to that coffee habit of yours, anyway?” Stan asks. “What, no Keurig machines in the “Endless Beach Vacation” dimension?” He sounds more bitter than he means to be, but in fairness, Ford shared everything with Dipper and Mabel, while Stan… he couldn’t help but wonder if Ford trusted him even now.

Ford cringes, just for a moment, and Stan almost asks what he said to see that look on his twin’s face, but then it’s gone and Ford glares at him coolly. “I’m happy to take my tea elsewhere, Stanley,” he says, and he’s gone before Stan can crack a joke to lighten the mood.

He sighs, and leans against the railing once more. The waves lap at the sides of their boat. He was just video chatting with Dipper and Mabel a few hours ago – he’d spend all his time on that newfangled machine, however hell-bent it seems on driving him insane, just to be able to talk to them more. He’ll never say that to their faces. Can’t let those kids get too full of themselves. Stan’s going to have to make Dipper swab the deck or something to make up for all this sugar-nice treatment once they get the chance to visit the old boat.

The sun is already starting to slipslide down to the horizon, and Stan thinks for a moment that if he tried to chase the horizon, the sun might never have to go down. He wishes it didn’t have to. Getting his memories back hasn’t been the piece of cake he led his family to believe, although he admitted the truth to Soos in an embarrassing moment of openness, one Mr. Mystery to another. Soos swore never to mention it again. Of course, Stan threatened to take the fez away if he ever did. The thought scared the shit out of the poor kid.

Not all his memories have popped back into place as if they’d never left. Some come back in flashes of cold and fear and the taste of bile and iron in his mouth. One memory hit him with the force of an aluminum baseball bat to the gut in an east St. Louis alley, a baseball bat born of a few too many bets on the wrong horse.

And of course, it didn’t get any better with the sun down. Sometimes he woke up and assumed he was in a hospital or a jail cell – he couldn’t _afford_ a bed with sheets, what had he got himself into this time? – before realizing he was safe, living out his dream.

He shivers, and glances around. He was still alone on deck; Ford must have gone to bed already. Old man. He chuckles to himself, but the sound is hollow and he doesn’t believe it himself.

Stan almost knocks on Ford’s door as he passes it, but he clenches his fist and keeps walking. The bed is cold; he wishes it wasn’t, his backaches have been getting worse now that they’re regularly deep-sea fishing for eldritch beasts.

He lies on his back, staring up at the creaky boards over his head, and wraps the blankets tighter around him. He tries to breathe, reminding himself that Ford is safe and so is he.

Yeah. Ford’s safe, totally safe. Like he had such a hard time of it. He went to college, built himself a house – not that the _rest_ of the family got to see a cent of that college money – and got to live in a warm bed _every night_ and he had friends and he was living it up with ghosts and gnomes and shit and then, when he finally got as far from Stan as he possibly could, Ford traveled the goddamn multiverse, drinking fucking space beer and never having to worry about making a mortgage payment.

Stan rolls over, and glares at the window. He has his brother back, he reminds himself.

_He hit me the minute he saw me._

I saved him.

_He didn’t want me to. He was happier without me._

Stan can’t squeeze his eyes closed any tighter, and at last he lets out a drawn-out sigh and stands up. There’s time for an afternoon nap tomorrow… unless Ford finds Atlantis tomorrow and Stan has to hold the camera while Ford makes first contact with the fish-people.

He walks up to the deck first, but the endless blank black ocean doesn’t do much to comfort him. He could try to Skype Dipper and Mabel, but frankly he’d probably throw the laptop into the Atlantic when it pissed him off. There was a reason Ford made the actual call.

The Stan O’War crests another wave as Stan breathes in, and is carried into the trough as he exhales. He can feel the waves in his heartbeat. Stan listens to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, creaking and groaning under his weight. Besides the crash of the waves on the sides of the boat, it’s the only sound.

Almost.

He can hear something, a squeaking sound, from Ford’s cabin. Probably one of his specimens is nocturnal, or something.

“Really, Sixer,” he mutters. Keeping the squid-lion in a jar on his desk isn’t a smart move, science guy.

The squeaking grows in volume, and Stan frowns. That doesn’t sound like a Squiddion. Is something else in there with him?

The next moment Stan stops cold as a desperate, choked scream comes muffled through the door. He knows that sound, because he’s made that sound. He and Ford may not be perfect facsimiles of each other, but they sound alike enough for this.

Stan knocks first, but there’s no answer, just more frantic whimpering. He steels himself and opens the door, slowly, so if Ford’s awake enough to see it he won’t be alarmed.

He shouldn’t have worried; Ford is twitching on the bed, his face shoved into his pillow and close to smothering him. He can’t move much, the way the sheets are tangled around him and pinning his arms to his sides, but he’s gonna fall out of bed if he keeps this up.

Stan is at his side in a heartbeat. He starts by trying to unwrap Ford’s squirming body from his blankets, pulling them away one by one until he can move – and his brother’s hands start clawing at the mattress in a frenzy, like something is still hurting him, and –

Stan puts his hand on Ford’s shoulder, and he realizes it was a mistake a moment before Ford’s fist snaps up, his eyes now wider than Stan’s ever seen them, and swings wildly at Stan’s face. Fortunately his reflexes aren’t as bad as they could be, and he can feel a whoosh of air brush his cheek as Ford’s knuckles sweep past.

Stan steps back in case Ford takes another swing, but his brother is panting heavily and the wild look in his eyes is fading. “Hey,” Stan says. “Breathe, okay? In and out. In, and out. In, and out.” Ford somehow starts to copy him, breathing deeply with his eyes closed tight.

“What’s wrong, Sixer?” Stan asks, and Ford flinches, and lets out a noise that sounds horrible and pathetic coming from his brother’s mouth.

Ford shakes his head. Stan knows why _he’s_ the untrustworthy conman now. Ford can’t lie to save his ass. “Don’t lie to me, Ford. It’s all over your wrinkly face.”

Ford tries to give him a venomous glare, and it’s a valiant effort, but it’s hard to be convincingly intimidating when you’re white as a corpse and jostling the bed with your shivering.

“Whatever you say,” Stan says, rolling his eyes. “Come on.” He gestures at the door, and Ford stares like it doesn’t compute. Stan has to stifle the urge to mock him with robot noises.

Slowly, so he doesn’t freak him out any worse, Stan puts his hand on Ford’s shoulder and guides him to his feet, then leads him out the door and down the hall, step by step, to the galley. Ford sits down; his breathing is better now, and so is the shaking.

Stan doesn’t say anything, just picks up the kettle from the drying rack and fills it with water, then sets it to boil. Ford won’t even look at him, damn it. He’s staring out the window, out into the empty black night, and Stan knows that it won’t give him any comfort. He sits with him until the kettle whistles, and he pours a mug full, plopping a tea bag that stinks of leaves into the cup before setting it carefully before his brother. Then, knowing he’s going to regret it, he does the same for himself.

Stan sits back down on the other side of the table, and watches as Ford slowly reaches out and accepts the cup. _Point one for Stanley._

Stan lets Ford settle for a few more minutes. He doesn’t speak until Ford’s taken his first sip of tea.

“It was, uh, it was January,” he says, and his voice sounds rougher than he imagined. He can see it in his mind clearly, more clearly than he remembers most things. The first time he dreamed about it, he woke up in a cold sweat.

“It was January, and I was living outta my car. You know the one, you called it a ‘useless flashy piece of shit’ when the kids weren’t around.” Ford’s eyes are closed, but he’s sipping the tea now. _Point two for Stanley._ The boat’s gentle rise and fall reminds him to breathe deep and stay calm.

“I was out on the street, doin’ card tricks. Folks’d walk past and ignore me, some of ‘em would leave a buck or two – not enough for a meal, forget a hotel. I figured out this trick, I’d drop the cards on the sidewalk and scramble to pick ‘em up and block their way. When I stood up, they were so distracted they didn’t notice me picking their pockets.”

He sees Ford make a face, and he knows he’s getting off topic. “I was close to seventy bucks when these guys came up. They chatted for a minute – knew enough to stay back, so I wouldn’t snake their wallets. Said they knew a way I could make triple – quadruple – what I was making on the street.” He swallows, but he pushes on. “I, uh, I said why the hell not, and they told me a street and an address. I didn’t know it was a robbery until it was too late to back out.”

Ford snorts incredulously, and even though Stan wants to punch the condescension out of him, it means his brother’s getting back to normal, so it’s a win in his book. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t all that experienced, back then. I was twenty-three,” he adds, and suddenly Ford is very interested in his mug of tea.

Stan can feel the icy wind sweeping over his face and hands, and the snow blowing in his eyes. He can feel a lump in his throat, and he tells himself crying is not an option. He has to survive, and he’ll do what it takes... It’s a few seconds before it hits him that he’s in the tropics in mid-fall, not a cold Topeka street in the ‘70s.

“So they broke in, and they just left me in the lobby to keep an eye out for the cops. Did you know you can rob a bank in ten minutes with the right tools?” He shakes his head. He can still see their faces,  “Anywho, I didn’t… I didn’t get anything out of that night,” he confesses. “’Cept a couple cold nights in a jail cell and then a court appearance. I still…”

He somehow manages to keep talking, rushing through his next words like they’re hot iron burning into his back. “I still have nightmares about that night. First time I had a gun pressed to my back, you know? Kinda sticks with you. You never think about how fragile your spine is until you’re one itchy trigger finger from having it blown out.”

“They --” his voice cracks, and he closes his eyes to hold back the tears he can _feel_  in his eyes, refusing to let them drip on his cheeks, “they threatened me with a gun, and then they knocked me around until I didn’t know which way was up. They all got the hell out of there, and, well, I was the fall guy.” 

He manages to open his eyes, and he knows Ford can tell he’s on the verge of tears. He _hates_  it, he looks _weak,_  but he can’t stop now. “I shoulda been smarter, shoulda known they weren’t trusting a stranger with a heist on a fucking bank. I just wanted to be… warm. And eat something that wasn’t a dollar menu special. I got to be a better conman for it.” He shivers, and he swears for a moment he could feel the cold metal of handcuffs digging into his wrists, skinny and scared wrists, and he thinks for a second he’s back in the courthouse, standing alone at his trial, unable even to give the names of the men who got away.

“Stanford, I – I just – I dream about it. A lot. And some nights, I’m afraid of my own pillow, and I hate feeling so... ” _Helpless._

Stan takes a deep breath in time with the rise of the boat, releasing it as the boat sinks down once more. He does it again, and again, letting his words fade into the salty night air. Ford has set his mug down on the table, and he’s staring out the window again.

Slowly Ford meets Stan’s eyes. He clears his throat. “It… it was Bill,” he says, and that’s all he needs to say. Stan can hear the emptiness in his voice, the shaking haunted house sound; like Bill Cipher is still right in front of him.

Ford gets up too suddenly, bolts back to his room like a deer. Stan sighs. _Stanley: 2, Trauma, 20._

Stan almost manages to sleep soundly that night. Turns out it’s easier to get some shuteye knowing he’s not alone.

He breathes with the rise and fall of the Stan O’War, and reminds himself that he is living his dream. He’s not trapped in nightmares anymore.

Ford is already awake and sitting in the galley early the next morning, his hands clasping the edge of the table, white-knuckled. The beat-up and wheezing coffeemaker is coughing up a brown fluid that could be oil but is probably coffee.

Ford gets up when the clattering of percolation finally ceases and pours out two mugs. His is black, straight and dark and bitter. Stan’s, he loads with sugar and cream and even a little cocoa powder; he’s feeling generous.

“What happened to ‘tea is healthy, blah blah blah?” Stan asks.

Ford smiles, and even though the look is stretched too tight, too thin and unhappy, the light reaches his eyes this time. “After Bill betrayed me, things didn’t just snap back to the way they were.”

Stan sits down and shuts up.

“I thought… I thought I was doing something great. That I would open the eyes and the minds of everyone. Dad… the kids from school… and you.” Ford sighs. “And Bill… he used me. When I found out, I told him our deal was off, but a pact doesn’t break so easily.” He starts drumming his fingers on the table, slowly at first. _Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._  

“I swore to him that he could possess me, a deal until the end of time, and I… he didn’t stop. Once I knew what he did, he still didn’t stop. I was bleeding, he left my body covered in, in bruises. If I slept, he could enter my dreams and torment me there, or worse, he could take control of me and I would be trapped, powerless. Helpless.”

The drumming of his fingers thumps faster now. “I would wake up to see my hands covered in blood and I didn’t know whose it was. There were people, in robes, leaving symbols of a single eye everywhere, and I could see him in every tree and in every wall and window of my home. He could watch me as he pleased and I couldn’t escape him.” _Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump._

“The only way to keep him out of my mind was to just not sleep. I slept only for minutes every day, and still he found his way into my mind, moving things on my desk just to let me know he was there. I drank coffee until even the coffee couldn’t keep my eyelids open. I had to stay awake, and the pharmacist wouldn’t give me any more pills to do it, so I did what I… what I could.”

 _thumpthumpTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP._ “In my dreams I see him entering my mind, hear the echoes of his voice, and I can’t – I can’t tell if he’s real, or if it’s really just a dream. If he’s back, if he can get back into my head and the metal plate won’t keep him out anymore –“ His words turn into a choked sound, and Stan keeps breathing with the rhythm of the waves, trying harder than anything not to betray how it feels like a black maw has opened up in his stomach.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Ford whispers, and Stan doesn’t know what to say. His brother, his best friend – he hadn’t slept, not for what must have been _weeks_ until Stan arrived in Gravity Falls.

“It’s okay, Stanford,” he says at last. “A murder triangle was literally stalking you, you don’t need to –” He stopped, and from the wry grin on Ford’s face, his brother knew why.

He _did_ need to say it. Sorry he wasn’t there when Dad kicked him out. Sorry he didn’t try to get in touch until it was the fate of the universe on the line. Sorry his first response to seeing Stan in thirty years was a right hook. Ford didn’t just need to say it. Stan needed to hear it.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Sorry for breaking your project. Sorry for not taking you seriously when you were out of your mind with paranoia. Sorry I couldn’t even save our fight until after we saved the world.

“I forgive you, Stan.”

Stan sets his empty mug on the table. “So, let’s head outside and catch ourselves a turtle-island.”

“It’s called an aspidochelone, Stanley,” Ford says. “And those will be further south, causing those anomalies in the Galapagos. We’re _here,”_ he hoists a grappling hook and a bucket of chum over one shoulder, “to be the first to ever document a kraken.”

Stan chuckles. “Nerd.”

Ford nods, grinning like a gap-toothed seven-year-old. “Codger.”

They climb the stairs to the deck together, coming out into the warm morning sun.

As Ford dumps chum overboard and sits down with a camera and a book on cryptozoology, and Stan sits by the railing with a scrapbook full of sparkle-coated summer memories, the Stan O’War rises and falls with the waves, steady as breathing, in and out.

In, and out.

In, and out.


End file.
